When Douche Runs in the Family: Part Deux

Posted: August 8, 2011 by VT in Daily Ramblings, Viva La Douche

Server X is one of our most loyal contributors, and we love her for it! She recently wrote a post entitled, “When Douche Runs in the Family” — a story of a mother and son who terrorized this poor server. Here’s the follow-up. Keep ’em coming, Server X!

Every year, our fantastic bar has a golf tournament. It typically starts in the morning, goes till noonish and is followed by dinner at the bar and many-a-drink. This year’s turnout wasn’t so great due to the not-so-lovely weather that we had Saturday morning.

Unfortunately, the crappy weather didn’t deter one particular person from showing up. It figures because — as we all know — douchebags are like the postman. They show up in rain or shine, sleet or snow.

Yes, it was the douchebag from my previous post, “When Douche Runs in the Family.” For some reason, this jerk decided to try his luck at the game of golf. BUT this time, instead of his gem of a mother, he brought his son. Now the son is similar to pops in many ways:

  • They look very similar
  • They have matching douche arm tattoos (and that’s saying a lot because I’m a sucker for tattoos)
  • They lack common sense
  • They’re cheap
  • They both think their shit doesn’t stink

But anyhoo, to start this tale. let me tell you about Papa Douche. This year, we had BBQ ribs, fried chicken, corn, potatoes, etc. for our golfers. Dinner started at 2pm, which is typical for the tournament. Since the golfing ends at noon, participants have a little time to get to the bar and tally up their scorecards before the festivities begin.

This, however, was not soon enough for Papa Douche.

He arrived at the bar at 1:40 pm and proceeded to throw a hissy fit because the buffet wasn’t open for business. While he was waiting, our lead cook was prepping the food. Papa Douche asks, “What kind of ribs are these, pork or beef?

Cook replies, “I believe they are pork.”

Pops says, “Well, how sure are you that they’re pork?”

Cook responds, “Sorry, I’m 100 percent sure they are pork.”

Pop then says, “I don’t give a flying fuck whether they’re pork or beef.”

Cook walks away. Obviously Papa Douche was just looking for something to bitch about.

After this, Pops was just plain creepy. He walked past my tiki bar several times doing the “guy nod,” like I should be thrilled he’s acknowledging me.

So now onto the pride of the family: Junior Douche. I’m sitting in my tiki bar already having a difficult time with the crowd. I had the cheap 21-year-olds and the MASTER complainer who tries to get everything for free. (I like to think there’s one of those at every bar. It keeps me sane thinking I’m not the only one having to deal with someone like that.)

So in walks the son. First of all, Junior Douche comes in with a gift certificate and buys some drinks for his golf buddies. Unfortunately, our tiki bar is still old school — with a really old till where we have to scratch off the total of the gift certificate and give them one with the remaining balance. So I can’t take a tip out of the gift certificate. Consequently, I get stiffed on a $30 tab.

Junior visits my bar several times to purchase a single beer. Each time, I have to scratch and rewrite the total. When I ask him if he wants to start a tab to make both our lives easier, he declines and gives an answer that confuses me. “I’m gonna be here awhile.”

So wouldn’t a tab be easier?

After that discussion, he spots his friend across the bar and starts shouting “What’s up, you fucking dick?” I personally find that obnoxious, and apparently most of my customers did too since they all left. So I tell him he needs to keep it down … and remind him it’s still early and there are families sitting around eating dinner.

Junior then grabs my hand to apologize. But instead he says, “Ewww, gross. Why are your hands so callused?”

“You realize I open beer bottles for a living, right?” I answer.

After that, I kept my distance from Junior Douche. I hate being touched by strangers! But he calls me over. I’m hoping it’s to apologize but, of course, this doesn’t happen. Instead, he pokes the tattoo on my neck — hard — and screams, “Power Up!” He then starts screeching the Super Mario song in my ear.

You can probably guess what my tattoo is. And at this point, my neck is turning red from where the jackass poked me.

By now, I’m not hiding my dislike for him AT ALL.  But the Energizer Douche just keeps on going. He actually tries to hit on me. And not smoothly. It went a little like this:

Junior Douche: You’re pretty hot. You should come to my house and serve me beer. Naked. I want to rub my face in your boobies.

This was followed by several lewd gestures.

I made it clear that was NEVER going to happen, and that he was no longer welcome at my bar. He goes to our other bar and immediately gets into a fight because he’s dancing with another man’s wife. So the lovely divebardiva had to break up a fight early in her shift. (Sorry, diva!) This also lead to the cops getting called and all that jazz.

So overall that night, between Papa and Junior Douche, they managed to:

  • Not tip a single dime
  • Complain about FREE food
  • Verbally harass more than one staff member
  • Insult me
  • Empty out my bar by offending all my customers
  • Assault me
  • Hit on me/creep me out
  • Start a fight

Oh — and the cherry on the douchebaggery sundae? You made the sober bus driver go in circles looking for your house because you were too drunk to give directions. And you didn’t tip him either. ASS!

For the sake of the rest of the town, I really hope Junior has an accident that causes him to be infertile. The line of douches must end with him!

Moral of this story: The douche apple really doesn’t fall far from the douche tree.

Comments
  1. Sparkle says:

    lol, I happened to be there for all that!

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